


the light behind your eyes

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aiden Needs a Hug (The Witcher), Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Blood, Body Horror, Character Death, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death, Descent into Madness, Eskel Needs a Hug (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lambert Needs a Hug (The Witcher), Last words, M/M, Madness, Other: See Story Notes, Potions, Suicide, The Author Regrets Everything, The Inherent Tragedy of Witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25907962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: He has his satchel of potions.It's not always the monsters you can see that kill Witchers on their Path.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 107





	the light behind your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello idk what happened this just. spilled out of me. today. for. no apparent reason i am _sorry_
> 
> see end notes for specifics, but dead dove tag is for safety. i don't know that this actually qualifies for dead dove, because i have never written anything like this and hardcore don't intend to write anything like it again. (i maintain that this is Heronfem's fault, because the angst demon they usually carry around apparently decided to ride my dick today.)
> 
> thank you to agnew (WitcherSexual) and koda (DancerInTheShadows) for enabling this and validating me during this adventure. also to koda for help with potion specifics! 
> 
> double lines indicate POV change, and really. i am sorry. but for maximum pain, please go listen to Weights & Measures by Dry the River and The Light Behind Your Eyes by MCR.

Eskel can smell him before he can see him, and for a moment he’s taken so aback that he can’t even move.

What is Lambert doing this close to Kaedwen in  _ August? _

Once the shock of it has worn off, Eskel clicks his tongue to make Scorpion walk faster. The stallion huffs but obeys the command, speeding up to match Eskel’s not-quite-jog. The scent trail is obvious, and recent, and that’s the first red flag; the second is four little bottles, one broken, scattered amongst the underbrush as he comes up to where the forest butts against the sheer cliffs of the Blue Mountains.

“Lambert?” he asks, loud. A few birds startle out of the trees, but there’s no other sound aside from the wind. He can’t smell or see anything that indicates a monster, which is the third red flag; he quickly ties Scorpion to a nearby branch, ignoring the way he snaps, and  _ runs. _

He sees the satchel first, and then more potion bottles, and then –

“ _ Lambert. _ ”

He crashes to his knees next to his brother’s prone form, breath shaken straight out of him by the sight. Lambert is still, as still as death, but Eskel can still hear his heart beat – faint, so faint it’s hardly even there, he could mistake it for a shift of a leaf. His skin is grey with toxicity, not just tinged, but  _ true _ grey, the color of the mountains, the color of wet ash. “Lambert, brother, can you hear me? What happened?”

Lambert gasps, and his head turns, but Eskel doesn’t think his brother can see him. His eyes aren’t the normal black, they’re blood red, swollen near to bursting, and his veins are bloated as well, black as ichor and pulsing. Eskel’s hands are trembling when he brings them up to Lambert’s throat, to his mouth; his breathing is the same as his heart, so faint it could be anything else in the forest.

“Lambert,” Eskel repeats, helpless. The satchel is empty, he knows, and he has no potions with him – not that he thinks this can be fixed.

He’s never seen toxicity like this. He’s never seen  _ anything _ like this, not natural or magical. This is new, and horrifying, and Eskel is shaking so hard it’s visible. “Lambert, little wolf, please.”

He gasps again, blood-red eyes widening, and mumbles, “ _ Medallion. _ ”

Eskel fishes the medallion out and gently breaks the chain, holding it up in front of Lambert’s eyes in case he can see. “Tell me,” he says, because he knows that this is it – these are the last moments, and if Lambert can speak his wishes, Eskel will move heaven and earth to heed them.

“Aiden,” Lambert gurgles. “Take – take it. To Aiden. Tell him. Sorry.”

Blood begins to leak out from Lambert’s lips, and Eskel’s chest is burning,  _ burning. _

“Little wolf,” he whispers, and drops the medallion to lean closer to his brother, to feel his breath over his face for – for the last time. He knows it. This is it, and all he can do is be witness.

Lambert could have died alone in this godsforsaken wood, and no one would have ever found his body. There would be nothing to memorialize, nothing to confirm their grief, just an empty hole in the already ghost-filled hallways of Kaer Morhen.

Eskel isn’t sure which option is worse –  _ that, _ or this:

Lambert’s hand shifts, lifts for a moment, then falls. Eskel threads their fingers together, lifts his brother’s hand for him, and Lambert weakly directs their tangled fingers to the nap of Eskel’s neck. Eskel sucks in a breath that feels like it very well may be  _ his _ last, and presses his forehead to Lambert’s, cups his jaw.

“Little wolf, Lambert, I – ”

“I – love,” Lambert chokes. “Tell them. I love them. Our family – you. Geralt.  _ Vesemir. _ And. Coën. And – ”

He coughs, and something darker than blood comes up. Eskel resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, resists the urge to look away. He will witness this.

“And Aiden,” Eskel finishes for him, because he knows. They all know, of _ course  _ they do, but – words aren’t something that often grace their relationships. “We love you, too, little wolf. We love you too.”

“I’m. Sorry,” Lambert groans, and his body jerks, tearing a wet, aching sound from his throat. “…sorry.”

“I know, little wolf, I know you are. We forgive you. Go on to the life after this one knowing that, Lambert; you are loved, and you are forgiven.”

Lambert makes a soft sound, something like a laugh. “Love,” he mumbles, coughing again. Blood splatters across Eskel’s face, and he does not move.

He  _ will _ witness this.

Even if it kills him.

“Little wolf,” he whispers, tasting blood on his tongue, and Lambert jerks one final time before the light goes out of his countenance, and he’s gone.

Eskel presses his lips to his littlest brother’s forehead, and he cries.

* * *

* * *

_ several months ago... _

For once, it’s a nice night. Their hunt went well, the tavern is willing to serve them, and none of the patrons have given the pair of them the stink eye yet.

Aiden almost wants to start a barfight on principle, but he restrains himself.

Lambert might be upset about that.

“Where are you going next?” he asks, around am mouthful of ale. Lambert rolls his eyes.

“North, probably,” he answers, fiddling with a handful of dice. He has no intentions of playing tonight – Aiden already asked – but sometimes he just. Plays with them.

Aiden has seriously considered getting his own set to do the same. It looks…soothing. He’s not really sure why he’d need soothing, really, except that sometimes Lambert says he’s  _ excitable, _ and – well, the word Lambert uses most often is actually  _ words, _ and it’s  _ feral fucking godsdamned alley cat. _

But he usually smiles after he says it, so Aiden doesn’t let it bother him.

Except on the really bad days.

So far, Lambert’s forgiven him for those.

“Why north?” Aiden asks, this time refraining from talking around his drink. Lambert still rolls his eyes.

“Don’t usually go this far south _ or  _ west,” Lambert says. “Too close to Sodden for my tastes.”

“What is it with you and Sodden?” He asks, but he knows he won’t get an answer. He never has before; there’s no reason that pattern will change tonight. Lambert’s not near drunk enough to start spilling secrets.

And Aiden isn’t exactly poor right now, but he’s certainly not rich enough to get Lambert drunk tonight. More’s the pity – Aiden loves Lambert when he’s drunk. He’s all smiley and loose and likes to  _ talk, _ and he tells all kinds of stories. Aiden doesn’t even care if they’re real.

Which is unusual, because he really does  _ hate _ lies and the people who tell them.

“None of yours,” Lambert grumbles, shifting the dice a little faster between his palms. Aiden gives an easy shrug and finishes his ale, then stands.

“Want one?” he asks, because Lambert actually hasn’t had anything to drink except the broth from their stew.

Lambert shrugs one shoulder, and splays the dice out on the table. “Got the coin for it,” he says, which isn’t a yes, but it also isn’t a  _ no.  _ At this point in their – friendship? – Aiden has learned to just take the answer he likes best when Lambert refuses to give a real one. It’s worked out so far. He figures Lambert is the type to pitch a fit if he doesn’t like something – at least when it’s as trivial as some ale or sharing a whore to save on coin. He’s sure there are things that would make Lambert spitting mad if Aiden made the choice for him, but none come to mind right off that bat.

He goes to the bar. The barmaid is pretty, but clearly afraid of him; she won’t look him in the eye. In the interest of his original plan to not antagonize anyone because it might upset Lambert, Aiden looks pointedly over her shoulder at the shelf of bottles behind her. She pours two ales and is very careful not to let their fingers brush.

Aiden almost gives her a smile, then remembers his teeth are usually the part that send people screaming. He nods instead, and jogs back to the table Lambert’s still sitting at with the drinks. He sloshes a little on the table when he sits, but Lambert doesn’t say anything, just moves the tankard to his left and picks up the dice again so he can hold them in one palm.

“Where are you going?”

“Uh.” Aiden thinks. “Probably west.”

Lambert snorts. “Straight to Sodden,” he mutters. “What is it with  _ you _ and Sodden?”

Aiden shrugs, because there  _ isn’t _ anything. Sodden is just another shithole place on the shithole map to him; he passes through when he’s near because it’s big enough to have an apothecary, and small enough to need monsters killed. “None of you go south,” he say, waving a hand at Lambert in general. He means  _ the Wolves, _ and by now, Lambert knows that.

Lambert rolls his eyes for the third time and tosses his palmful of dice in the air just to catch them all perfectly. Aiden frowns at his hand, and if Lambert notices, he doesn’t bring it up.

“Makes sense,” he says. “Our keep is up north. No reason for us to go all the way to the Yaruga, much less across it, unless we have to. That’s what the cats and Vipers are for, ain’t it?”

Aiden snorts. “Hardly any of us  _ left, _ ” he retorts. “Four of you, right? I haven’t seen more than two other Cats since – fuck, it’s been a decade probably. And Vipers – well. There’s at least the two.”

Lambert shakes his head. “There’s four Vipers, too,” he says. “The other two don’t cross out of Nilfgaard.”

“And how would  _ you _ know that, if you don’t go south?” Aiden asks, mildly suspicious.

Stories of questionable truthfulness aside, Lambert doesn’t lie to him. He knows how much Aiden hates it.

“Got connections,” Lambert says, and throws back half of his ale in one swallow. “And once more, it’s none of yours.”

Aiden huffs and crosses his arms, knowing he looks like a petulant child. Lambert looks over him appraisingly, a glint in his eyes that spells trouble, and Aiden huffs again.

“Fuck you,” he mumbles. “Gonna head tonight.”

Lambert shrugs. “Fine by me, kitten, I’m not your fucking keeper,” he says, but Aiden can hear the naked affection in his tone, and he softens his posture a little.

“Don’t call me kitten,” he jabs, but by Lambert’s grin, the affection in his own voice is worse. “ _ Little wolf. _ ”

Lambert snorts. “Got over that one about thirty years ago,  _ kitten. _ Now go on, if you’re going.” He jerks his head toward the door.

Aiden resists the urge to stick out his tongue – barely – and stands. “See you on the Path,” he says. It comes out a little softer than he planned, but Lambert doesn’t react.

“See you on the Path,” Lambert repeats.

It’s their standard goodbye. No promises, no guarantees, just a gesture of possibility. Aiden can’t resist reaching out to ruffle Lambert’s hair as he passes, though, and the sound of the other Witcher’s laughter follows him all the way to Sodden.

* * *

Aiden finds three jobs in Sodden, and dispatches them with quick efficiency. Only two of them are monsters. The other – well, it  _ was _ a monster, but he doesn’t think the average peasant would necessarily agree.

And  _ maybe _ he didn’t dispatch all of them with quick efficiency.

Lambert thinks that Aiden doesn’t pay attention. And he’s  _ sort of _ right – really, Aiden doesn’t pay attention to anything that doesn’t interest him or concern him. So, he pays attention to jobs, and to Lambert, and to other Witchers. Whores and tavern food and the occasional pitchfork pointed at his face.

And  _ gossip. _

It’s – shameful, really, Aiden can hear the Master Witchers at Stygga reprimanding him in his head still, too many decades later. But it’s  _ fun, _ and really, what else is he supposed to do?

Kill monsters and get stoned out of towns and then die, nothing in between?

Yeah, fuck that.

(And, for the record, the Wolves and their high-and-mighty  _ Witcher’s Code, _ like they’re knights and not traumatized mutants – fuck  _ that, _ too.)

So, he’s sitting at a tavern after the first two contracts, and he hears some whispers. It’s easy to cast Supirre (really, if his instructors had hated his eavesdropping so much, they never should have taught him the Sign  _ dedicated to it _ ) and listen in to those whispers.

“A Witcher,” a barmaid is whispering. She looks older, maybe around late forties, but Aiden’s never seen her before. Not that he makes a habit of memorizing faces, mind you, but usually he can pin if he’s seen someone or not. “Like Rogir’s boy.”

“Celeste’s,” her companion mutters. “You know – ”

“Well it doesn’t matter, does it?” the barmaid snaps. “She’s gone and so is he – that can’t be him, can it?”

“No, can’t. Too lanky, skin too dark. Face isn’t right, either.”

“How could you know?”

“Because I  _ knew _ Celeste, you cow.”

“No you did not – ”

“Yes, I  _ did! _ I was the one who paid for that damned burial, as little as it was, damnit, you have the memory of a half-burnt candle, Hida. Really.”

Aiden muffles a snort into his ale at that. So someone who had been born in Sodden got made into a Witcher. Interesting, that these people would know about it, though. Those things are usually kept quiet, no matter how they happen. He wonders who it is, if he’s ever met them. Just as likely not; Lambert’s really the only other Witcher he comes across regularly, and he’s pretty sure that’s partially engineered – it certainly is from his side. Not that  _ Lambert  _ knows that. He hopes.

“It ain’t him,” not-Hida says. “And anyway, even if it was, what are you planning? Going and telling ’im his ma’s dead? He can probably guess, and I doubt he’d care, Witchers and their feelings and all.”

“That’s bullshit,” Hida mutters. “Ain’t no way to mutate feelings out of them.”

“What do  _ you  _ know about it,” not-Hida rolls her eyes. Aiden muffles another snort into his ale.

Hida is right, but he isn’t about to join the conversation to confirm that. He finishes his ale and stands to get another, missing some conversation while he’s gone; when he returns, he redraws the sign.

“ – Rogir used to beat that boy silly, and Celeste, too. Whether he has feelings or not, I doubt he’d want to know about his pa.”

Aiden frowns.

Not really an uncommon beginning for a Witcher. But there’s  _ something _ in the back of his mind, something he’s missing, a detail that he should see but can’t quite parse.

“Well that ain’t him, so it doesn’t much matter, does it? I don’t think he’d ever come back to this godsforsaken place, and he’s got the right.” Hida spits on the floor. “And may Rogir be damned, killed Celeste and gave that lamb away like he was meant for slaughter. Killed the next girl, too, y’know, just buried her himself since she was a runaway.”

The tickle in his mind turns into a prod, into sudden realization, and the handle of Aiden’s tankard cracks in his hand. He ignores the pain of the splinters and lets go of the remains, head spinning. The Sign dispels and all he can hear is tavern chatter and his own pounding heart rate.

_ What is it with you and Sodden? _

_ None of yours. _

He can practically hear his brain clicking like cogs, tick-tick-tick-tick, until something finally settles and a bell tolls.

_ “…killed Celeste and gave that lamb away…” _

Killed Celeste and gave that lamb away.

Killed Celeste, and gave that  _ Lamb _ away.

_ Lamb _ ert.

Capital letters, a nickname. Lambert had said he kept his name when he became a Witcher, just the first one though – Lambert of Nowhere, belonging to no one. He’d said he’d been too old to try and go by a new one, was too used to Lambert by the time they talked about renaming them.

Witcher Lambert of Nowhere.

Lambert Rogirson of Sodden.

_ Fuck. _

He stands and marches over to the women, ignoring the way they gasp and go pale and flinch. “Rogir, this man who gave his son away to be a Witcher – where does he live?”

“Uh, I don’t know why you – ”

“My reasons aren’t your  _ business, _ my lady, but thank you for the concern. Where is this Rogir of Sodden?”

“…Rogir Basrason,” Hida corrects timidly. “Just north of the blacksmith’s, with the bloody great chimney. Got an old quilt over the windows.”

“Thank you.”

Aiden spins on his heel and stomps out of the tavern, heading in a single-minded line north.

* * *

So. Three monsters in Sodden, the last definitely not efficient (rather slow and gleeful, though he won’t use that last adjective if anyone traces him), and the most satisfying, despite receiving no coin for it.

He’s practically vibrating with anticipation for the next time he sees Lambert.

* * *

They meet up again two weeks later, somewhere on the backroads of Rivia. Lambert is finishing up with a nekker nest, using his usual method of  _ they can’t come back if there’s only ash left. _ Aiden whistles to let him know he’s approaching, and then stands quietly next to him and watches the nest burn.

“Easy?” he asks.

Lambert makes a short, sharp noise. Not a no, but definitely not a yes. So the hunt was probably easy, but Lambert is upset.

That’s  _ usually  _ what that sound means. Aiden grins. He has the  _ perfect  _ news to fix this.

“I wanted to tell you something,” he starts, and Lambert rolls his eyes and gathers the few heads he kept away from the fire.

“Go on, then,” he prods after a moment of silence. “Don’t have the patience for your word games.”

“You’re grumpy,” Aiden points out cheerfully. “But I can fix it!”

“Oh, can you,” Lambert mumbles. “Do tell.”

“So I went to Sodden – ”

“Knew that.”

“And I overheard some  _ interesting _ information,” Aiden continues as if he hasn’t been interrupted. He notices the way Lambert tenses, but assumes he’s just doing that – it happens, sometimes. “About you. Specifically.”

“Aiden, what the  _ fuck. _ ”

“That’s not the fix-it, obviously. I know that wouldn’t make you happy. But what  _ is _ the fix – I did it for you. Since you don’t want to go back to Sodden.”

Lambert stops walking, and Aiden nearly runs into him. The other Witcher is stock-still, as if he’s carved from stone, and Aiden frowns.

“Lambert, what – ”

He only gets the warning of the nekker heads dropping to the ground before he’s being grabbed,  _ shoved,  _ a hand around his throat. His back hits a nearby tree and he immediately grabs for a weapon – a dagger, a bomb, anything, Lambert hasn’t  _ attacked  _ him before, and there’s a boil beginning in his blood that wants to see him  _ hurt  _ for the slight –

“It was  _ you, _ ” Lambert spits, and Aiden’s plot for a weapon and bloody revenge crashes to a halt. “ _ You  _ killed him.”

“…your father,” Aiden says. “We’re – talking about the same man?”

“Yes,” Lambert confirms, and he sounds – angry. More than angry, in fact, Aiden doesn’t think he’s ever seen Lambert’s face twist like this. “You –  _ fuck you,  _ Aiden, you had  _ no fucking right. _ ”

“What?”

Lambert laughs, a loud, empty thing, and shoves Aiden further into the tree, tearing at his tunic, before he steps back and runs a vicious hand through his own hair. “Godsdamnit, Aiden – if I wanted him dead, he’d have been dead decades ago. My first year on the Path, probably.”

“…why?” Aiden doesn’t get it. What’s the point of waiting, if Lambert would have been able to go back and kill the man? He was a piece of shit, pretty literally, and Aiden doesn’t see why he should have been allowed to live. Also, as much as the humans like to talk about how revenge is empty, it’s  _ not. _ Aiden knows personally.

“Because,” Lambert hisses, low and dangerous, “he deserved to die alone, sick, and stinking, like he forced my mother to die.”

“He did,” Aiden reassures. “At least – the sick and stinking. I, uh.”

“Shut up,” Lambert barks. “I know what you  _ did, _ you fucking –  _ fuck,  _ feral fucking Cats, this is why we’re not supposed to befriend you, you’re fucking  _ unhinged. _ ”

Aiden’s frown deepens and something that feels like stinging heat blooms in his chest. It’s like a stab wound but deeper,  _ worse, _ and he suddenly feels tears pricking at his eyes, his throat starting to close.

He knows that he’s – a lot. He’s always known it. He’s a  _ Cat, _ it’s what they’re known for. But he and Lambert are  _ friends, _ and have been for years, and usually when Lambert calls him feral he’s smiling but he’s not smiling now, and – and Aiden is  _ angry, _ because how  _ dare he  _ –

“Save me the fucking mood swing,” Lambert says, sharp and biting, “I’m fucking leaving. Take the damn nekkers and get paid if you want. I don’t want to see you again. You didn’t have the fucking  _ right,  _ Aiden, and I didn’t need your fucking  _ help.  _ Never have.”

“He killed another girl,” Aiden whispers.

Lambert runs a hand over his face. “No he didn’t,” he says. “I did. I made sure the fisstech she bought was tainted, so she would go out high before he could start beating her.”

“…Lamb….”

Lambert disappears into the woods, and Aiden stands there for a long time, rage and something like grief twisting around inside him until he loses track of where he is, what he’s doing, why he’s  _ feeling _ so much.

He loses several days like that.

He wakes up with blood on his hands.

* * *

Then he starts to lose weeks.

And then it’s a month, and Aiden has a startling realization during a single moment of clarity, waking up elbow-deep into a dead man’s gut. (Again.)

He’s losing it.

Lambert was right. He is fucking unhinged.

He loses a lot of time after that.

* * *

* * *

Lambert doesn’t think about it.

Instead, he takes contract after contract, takes potion after potion, and marches on. There’s the Path, and coin, and nothing else.

He doesn’t think about the last time he actually went to Sodden, the year his mother died. He doesn’t think about standing in the distance, watching someone he didn’t know dig her a poor woman’s grave in the back of the cemetery. He doesn’t think about how when he went to see what Rogir was up to, that he was already fucking a working girl, one who looked mildly terrified the whole time.

He doesn’t think about doing that skeevy job for that even skeevier Lord so he could get access to the knowledge he had of Sodden’s inner workings, and the fisstech supply lines. He doesn’t think about that runaway, addicted and about to walk into the worst mistake of her short life. He doesn’t think about how he kept some of that tainted fisstech on his person for a year afterward.

He doesn’t think about it.

He doesn’t.

* * *

When he sleeps, he dreams of Aiden’s face.

At first, he’s laughing. And then he’s crying. And then, in the blink of an eye, he’s wild-eyed and vacant, stabbing wildly toward Lambert with no recognition in his eyes.

Lambert wakes up and knows he should have let the Cat kill him that first time, before he even knew Aiden’s name.

* * *

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He’s thinking about it. All of it.

His childhood, Vesemir and the Law of Surprise, the Trials, his first monsters.  _ All  _ of it.

And it’s too much. Too much to think about, too much to bear, too much to have experienced in a relatively short lifetime. A lifetime that he knows will go on, and on, and on, unless he’s killed first.

How old is Vesemir? Two-hundred? Three-hundred? Four, five?

He doesn’t know. He’s not sure the elder Witcher has ever told them. He’s not sure Vesemir knows anymore.

And that – that is more, even. On top of everything else, Lambert can’t even expect this nightmare to be finished in another thirty, forty years. No.

He’s  _ survived _ their Trials, and they’ve given him nothing but centuries of pain to look forward to.

At least when his father was beating him bloody, he knew he might be able to die quickly.

There are no monsters here. Nothing to lose himself in, nothing to make a mistake on, nothing that can give him what he needs. Pain. He needs pain. It grounds him, centers him back into reality, makes the past fade because you can’t focus on the past when you’re holding your intestines in with one hand.

He can’t take his sword to himself. He can’t disrespect the weapon like that.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been pacing the woods. His horse is long-gone, held to him only by his constant grip on its reins and nothing else. He has his armor, his swords. His satchel of potions.

His  _ godsdamned thoughts. _

He sees Aiden when he closes his eyes. Fuck, he sees Aiden when his eyes are open. He  _ misses  _ the Cat, wants to know he’s safe and fed. Wants to see him smile again, wants to see the way his eyes light up when he sees stupid little things, like Lambert playing with his dice or lace.

He has his satchel of potions.

The first goes down easy, decades of practice behind him. Cat, he’s pretty sure, when the world goes too-bright and hazy and he can suddenly smell everything for miles. The next goes down easy, too, those same decades of practice. Probably Thunderbolt by taste, but he doesn’t look to find out, just keeps pacing and digs another out. This one he recognizes on touch just because he’s so careful with it – White Raffard’s Decoction. The toxicity of it is off the charts, and he can hear Vesemir’s voice in his head, thoughts even louder now with the reverb effect of Cat.

_ Don’t ever take a healing potion right after a stimulant, unless you absolutely have to. _

He downs the White Raffard's and tosses the bottle away. The next is – Black Blood, he takes out two bottles. He’s stumbling now, the cocktail mix of Cat enhancing all of his senses, Thunderbolt – or maybe Blizzard – elevating his heart rate, body flooded with adrenaline while White Raffard’s tries to slow it all down. His heart keeps skipping beats, an alarming silence when he already has such a slow heart.

Pain lances up his spin when he falls to his knees. He bends at the waist and vomits, but knows it won’t help anything. The potions are already in his blood.

He takes the Black Blood, chokes, swallows back more vomit. The second dose of it goes down with a burn like the time he tried to mix magically enhanced peppers with moonshine. He coughs and chokes again, and this time blood comes up. Stimulants and healing potions.

He’s not sure what else he takes. He thinks it might be another Cat, maybe a Petri’s Philter, he can’t be sure. Everything is white, now, white with odd, red rivulets. He can no longer see the forest around him, and at some point he collapsed onto his back.

Time ceases to have any meaning. The red rivulets become bigger and bigger, and his eyes ache, but at the same time his whole body is burning. His stomach writhes, and he chokes on more vomit, turning barely to the side to let it dribble from his mouth. Moving hurts more. There’s blood in the vomit.

He thinks his skin might be boiling.

All he can see is red.

_ Oh, _ he thinks, for the first time, and there’s a level of hilarity in that but he can’t seem to find the ability to laugh,  _ I’m dying. _

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he smells Eskel. He can’t see his brother, and he could be hallucinating, the grips of death so deep into him now that he can’t really be sure he’s not already dead.

Maybe he’s in hell.

He deserves it.

He’d been too weak, in life. Pain seizes him, and Eskel-maybe-not-Eskel says his name.

“Lambert, little wolf please.”

Oh, that nickname. He’s always loved that nickname. Hearing it now makes him feel safe. Pain blurs out his edges for a moment and he remembers again that he’s dying. “Medallion,” he gasps. Did he take a Killer Whale? He can’t breathe, even though he can tell his chest is moving because it hurts like he’s punctured a lung. Maybe he has.

There’s movement, and then the weight of his medallion disappears, Eskel’s fingers startlingly cold against his throat.

“Tell me,” Eskel orders, and Lambert tries to breathe.

“Aiden. Take – take it. To Aiden. Tell him. Sorry.”

Fuck, he’s so sorry. And he’s dying. He’ll never be able to see Aiden laugh again, or cry, or lose his mind. He’ll never be able to tell him  _ I love you,  _ like he’s wanted to for a decade.

“Little wolf.”

Eskel sounds like he may be dying too, and Lambert wants to ask, wants to make sure he’s okay, because fuck, Eskel deserves to live. Eskel is  _ good, _ kind and fair and loving, gentle even though life has been cruel to him. He’s everything Lambert could be if he was just a little bit stronger, just a little bit better.

All the things he never could be, because he was always too weak.

And now he’s dying, as weak as he’ll ever be.

He wants to touch Eskel. One last time, one last comfort. He doesn’t care if Eskel will freeze him, but his arm won’t move. He can’t move his body, it only moves for him when pain rips through his system again.

Eskel takes his hand, and Lambert isn’t sure if he sighs in relief, but he wants to. Weakly,  _ weak weak weak, _ he pushes toward where he thinks Eskel’s neck is. One last time. One last touch, a comfort.

He can give this to his brother.

Their foreheads press together and it hurts, but Eskel’s hands on his jaw are so, so gentle. He can’t see his brother, darkness has covered the red, but he can smell him. Feel him, past the spasms of pain, his slow death. Hear him.

“Little wolf, Lambert, I – ”

Lambert feels himself slipping. He has to get the rest out, has to give Eskel more than just his medallion.

“I – love.” He chokes, and tastes blood on the back of his tongue. “Tell them. I love them. Our family – you. Geralt. Vesemir. And. Coën. And – ”

The cough brings the blood up, spilling over his lips. His throat burns, and he wonders if anything that comes out of him now is just dissolved tissue. What a disgusting thought.

It slips away.

“And Aiden,” Eskel murmurs, broken. “We love you too, little wolf. We love you too.”

“I’m. Sorry.”

Lambert is so close to gone, he can feel it, oblivion pulling at his consciousness. Eskel’s presence is starting to fade out, leaving nothing but blank darkness in his place, and he’s so, so afraid. “…sorry.”

“I know, little wolf, I know you are. We forgive you. Go on to the life after this one knowing that, Lambert; you are loved, and you are forgiven.”

He wants to laugh. It’s just too much, the antithesis to his entire existence, that he would die loved when he was born unwanted and unforgivable.

“Love,” he slurs. The dark takes over. Eskel’s smell is gone, his touch, too. There’s a sound, something, just before Lambert slips fully into the dark.

“Little wolf.”

There’s a brief flash of pain, and then there’s nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

* * *

* * *

Eskel carries Lambert’s body back to Scorpion. He ties him down to the saddle, but not like a monster. No, he sits his brother’s corpse up and gets into the saddle behind him, smelling the deadly cocktail of potions and death and the smell of Lambert, quickly fading.

He rides toward Kaer Morhen.

He cries.

* * *

Vesemir isn’t at the castle when Eskel arrives.

He lays Lambert out in the courtyard, gentle, and walks around to where the wood is stored. Building a pyre is easy, ingrained. He does it slowly and methodically, choosing each piece of wood carefully and stacking it exactly.

Vesemir arrives when the pyre is half built.

He joins in the building without a word.

* * *

He watches his brother’s lifeless body go up in flames, the only memorial and send off he’ll ever have, and Vesemir has to stop him from walking into the fire.

When he can no longer fight his father’s grip, he turns into it instead, and he cries.

Vesemir doesn’t make a sound, but Eskel can feel the tears in his hair.

* * *

He allows himself a day and a night of rest, and then he goes back down the mountain. Vesemir doesn’t comment, just hands him a pack full of rations.

The elder Witcher doesn’t have to say the words for Eskel to understand what the clap to his shoulder meant.

_ Find Geralt. _

_ Find Aiden. _

Geralt is easy. This time of year, he’s usually in Redania, maybe the upper edge of Temeria. It’s been his pattern for decades and Eskel can practically tell the seasons by where he runs across Geralt on the Path.

He feels hollow, and when Geralt catches his eyes across a tavern, he apparently looks it, too.

“Eskel, what – you…reek of smoke. Smoke and….”

“Burnt body,” Eskel supplies dully. “Lambert killed himself.”

Outwardly, Geralt shows no sign of recognition, but Eskel knows his brother. He can tell that Geralt is crumbling, just underneath that stoic veneer, can see the pain in his golden eyes, the agony that echoes his own. He knows this pattern, too, the way Geralt sinks and breaks under the heavy weight of grief.

“He – did you – ”

“I found him before he was gone,” Eskel says, and pushes his drink toward Geralt. It’s vodka, the kind that could peel paint, and Geralt chugs it like it’s water. Eskel understands the feeling, and waves at the barmaid for more. “I’m taking his medallion to Aiden. It was one of his last requests.”

“One…?”

“The other was to tell everyone he loved them. You, Vesemir, Coën, Aiden.”

Geralt makes a sharp noise. “Last words,” he says, and Eskel reads the question there.

“Word,” Eskel says softly. “Love.”

* * *

The first thing Geralt does when they leave the confines of the city is cast Aard so violently that he causes a boulder to crack straight down the middle.

Eskel sits in the shade of a tree, murmurs, “No Igni,” and watches his brother take his grief out on the unsuspecting world around them.

There’s some amount of catharsis to destruction, Eskel thinks, but he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to see flames again without hearing Lambert’s dying breath echo in his ears. He pushes his hand against the satchel at his waist, empty of potions, and stares blankly at Geralt’s back.

* * *

It takes them two weeks to find Aiden.

When they finally find him, Eskel is sure they’ll have to put him down.

There’s a string of bodies leading the way, and a trail of incriminating evidence pointing to a Cat Witcher that’s succumbed to the madness of his mutagens. Eskel wants to go alone, knowing Geralt doesn’t have the stomach to kill a fellow right now – no matter what he may say to the contrary – but Geralt refuses, and so they go together.

Eskel clutches Lambert’s medallion so tightly his palm bleeds.

* * *

* * *

Aiden doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s had clarity.

Everything reeks of blood. There’s the crusted remnants of it under his nails, and when he catches sight of himself in a pool of water he sees his teeth are stained as well. He wonders how many people he’s killed now, how long he’s been – well, mad.

He should kill himself now, while he’s clear enough to think of it.

Instead of doing that, he scrubs his entire body raw with a wool rag he finds in his packs, and then hunkers down in an old, abandoned cottage to wait for the madness to find him.

Eskel finds him first.

He curls back from the Wolf Witcher, nose wrinkling. “You smell of burning,” he mutters, and Eskel flinches.

_ Flinches. _

Geralt stands, hulking, behind his brother.

They look like new Witchers, hollowed out and aching in their skin. There’s something wrong, something he’s missing, something he should know.

Eskel simply crouches in front of him and holds out a Wolf medallion. He doesn’t speak, and up close his eyes are even more haunted. Aiden can smell more than smoke on him, now; he smells like fire and weeks on the road, and Lambert.

And death.

He looks at the medallion.

Eskel drops it into his lap, stands, and turns away.

“What did it?”

Both Eskel and Geralt stop, filling the doorway of Aiden’s hideaway with their broad shoulders, so similar to Lambert but so vastly different, as well.

“Toxicity,” Geralt finally answers. “He did it.”

Eskel turns back and waits until Aiden meets his eyes. “He loved you,” he murmurs, and it’s the single most broken sentence Aiden has ever heard anyone utter.

* * *

The woods are dark, and cold, and Aiden stumbles into them blindly. The wolf medallion digs into his palm, and he smells more blood, but he can’t stop moving. If he stops moving, it will find him.

And this time, he will not escape.

He fumbles forward for hours. Maybe days. He doesn’t know. He can hear Lambert’s voice in his head,  _ none of yours, kitten, none of yours, kitten, you had no  _ right, _ feral fucking Cats – _

He finds himself on his hands and knees, no one around to hear the sound of him shattering.

“I love you,” he sobs at the damp soil, nails digging into the ground as if he could bring something back by burying himself. “I loved you, you  _ asshole, _ I wanted nothing but you.  _ Nothing, _ Lambert, do you hear me wherever you are?”

He collapses to the ground, curled into the fetal position, searing pain like nothing he’s ever felt scorching through his blood. The Trials don’t have shit on this, on – on –

“I didn’t think I’d lose you for real.” He tastes dirt, and rot, and blood, and saltwater. “I love you, Lamb. I’m sorry I won’t remember you.”

He hears Lambert’s voice,  _ feral fucking godsdamned alley cat,  _ and lets the darkness take him.

**Author's Note:**

> detailed notes on the content of this fic: eskel finds lambert nearly dead, toxicity so high he looks like a monster (body horror), and lambert bleeds as he speaks to eskel before he dies. later on there is mention of lambert's abuse as a child, and murders committed by both lambert's father and lambert. there's a detailed scene before and when lambert takes the potions and starts to die, clear up until he actually dies, though it's less detailed than the entrance from eskel's perspective.
> 
> uh? yeah. i'm sorry. but please let me know if you enjoyed this because this is _deeply out of my usual comfort zone_ and i could use the support. i made myself sad.


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